Kipper the Dog: The Passion of Caillou
by My Left One
Summary: All is not well in the world of Kipper and his friends, when Tiger finds himself on another cartoon program at PBS Kids: Caillou. The rules are different, the language is incomprehensible, the family is boring, and Caillou is his usual, insufferable self. Tiger's sanity can not long survive. Kipper, Jake and Pig must venture to rescue Tiger from a fate worse than cancellation.
1. A Surprise Attack

Caillou lay bleeding on the sofa, much to the chagrin of his mother, Doris, whose primary concern volleyed between the ruined upholstery and the mangled condition of the boy's leg. Dad was still leaning against the credenza they'd hastily shoved across the front door, his rifle trained vaguely across the lawn. Somewhere through her shock at the events of the last few minutes, a keening wail suddenly captured her attention. Rosie. She sat at her mother's knee, scared. Probably traumatized. But not bleeding.

Where did that dog come from? she wondered. The grey Scottish terrier had entered their lives at the top of the episode, and quickly turned into a violent, feral beast. The thing had shredded Caillou's leg so badly she could barely tell what was fabric and what was flesh.

Oh, God, where was grandmother?

Doris winced, remembering that grandma had gone to bring in the cat, Gilbert. Now they were both out there. With that thing.

If she had been paying attention to the other shows on the network, she might have known how this happened. She was just so damned busy being mom to Caillou. She couldn't know that a neighboring show, about a dog named Kipper, had just gone through a minor upheaval. It began with a lost dollar bill...


	2. A Found Dollar

"Kipper, hallo, Kipper, are you here?" Tiger was forever pushing open the front door, bounding halfway into the living room before announcing himself, much like a character from a comedy program (which Kipper and the others had learned never to point out).

Kipper, as usual, was in another room doing something on his own, in this case re-lining the kitchen cupboards with contact paper, and not giving much thought to Tiger. "I'm in here," he called out.

"Look what I've found, Kipper," said Tiger in his favored half-whisper of barely restrained enthusiasm for the pointless. He was holding up a wrinked scrap of greenish paper, tinged grey either by its aged printing or a coating of grime more perceived than seen.

"Why, that's a Dollar!" Kipper exclaimed, and snatched the thing from Tiger's paw without consideration for manners or reproach.

"Is that what it is?" Tiger asked excitedly. He had never seen or carried one, though he was much more used to never seeing or carrying the domestic British currency. "I've heard of special stores where they take these."

Kipper held the paper in his paws and turned it over above his head, making sure to turn his back to Tiger. "Yes! We should go to one. You might find something to exchange it for."

The door opened, and in stepped Jake, the friendly sheepdog. "I've always wanted to visit a Dollar Store," he said, with no further thought to a proper greeting. In any language, and in any denomination, it seemed money had the power to gather a willing crowd.

Kipper and Tiger displayed no emotive response to this sudden intrusion. It happened every week, and they knew it was a large part of their purpose, to pivot through plot points as a butterfly flits between blossoms. Had they been human, they might have exchanged pleasantries, agreed upon plans, pulled on overcoats, donned hats, and wasted precious minutes of their young viewers' meager attention spans. Instead, Kipper said, "Splendid! Let's go," and they left.

As they reached the sidewalk, they were approached by Pig, who for some reason, which a human observer would have noted and inquired about, was without Arnold.

After a cursory explanation of this episode's plot, Pig, the only character predisposed toward politeness, asked, "May I join you?"

"Of course!" Kipper said, not worrying how Jake or Tiger might feel about it. They always seemed agreeable enough. Tiger, in fact, was coping well despite not being given back his dollar.

As they all knew, their ability to react with immediacy to a constantly-evolving series of humiliating events was key to keeping this job. So, sovereign borders and currencies being undermined by the economic realities of serial television programming, off to the Dollar Store they went...


	3. A Trip to the Store

"Do you think the Marketing Director would like one of these little torches, Kipper?" Tiger asked, annoyingly clicking the button while the cheap silver trinket flashed in Kipper's face.

Kipper turned away as if the glare from the LED bulbs burned his eyes. "Here they call it a flashlight, Tiger. And no. Is that what we're here for, a birthday present?"

"Of course," Tiger answered curtly. "Where we work, you know how serious people are about that. It's a form of tyranny, really."

Nearby, Pig held up a rubber spatula, meant for flipping fried eggs without demolishing them. "Does he cook?" asked Pig. "I find these things rather handy."

"No, I don't believe so," Tiger said. "Remember what happened when we ate the custard he brought to the holiday party?" The three shared a look, exchanging a note of recognition without so much as a nod.

"Tyranny?" Kipper chortled, getting back to the matter. "You're comparing office birthdays with a state of existential peril caused by the whims of infernal dictators?"

Tiger regarded the question as what it was, an incendiary appeal to the dramatic, while refusing to look up from the plastic marble-in-a-maze game he held in his paws. But then, hadn't he done the same by invoking this charged word? "Tyranny, Kipper, need not be the work of one singular power, but the unwashed multitudes themselves, and might include traffic jams, lines at the pharmacy, EDM concert promotions, and the way our employer handles birthdays."

"What about this thing?" called out Jake from the next aisle. He was holding a small, furry stuffed llama on a key ring.

"He doesn't like llamas," said Tiger. "Not at all." The others managed believably to fail to wonder how he knew this.

"The network does take birthdays a bit seriously, but..." Kipper admitted.

"They do," Tiger said, looking up at last. "Think about it. Each and every single day, they use about three hours total to recognize the birthdays of our young viewers. Letters arrive in sacks borne on forklifts and sorted through by an army of workers. They type the names and ages into a database that feeds the chiron through a custom api with more sloc than the graphics package itself."

Kipper nodded. "But that's important. If one little munchkin fails to see his name scroll across the screen..."

"Especially during that critical hour of fragile ids, just before bedtime," Tiger added. "When tempers are balanced on a razor's edge between cherubic peace and..."

"Catastrophic meltdown," said Kipper.

"Meltdown. And more letters."

"Look, you could get him a placemat," Pig said. "There's a ship on this one."

"What good is one placemat?" Tiger answered gruffly. "It'd be taken as an insult."

"It probably would," Kipper agreed. "But it's not like you'd get fired for it."

"Are you sure, Kipper? They call birthday recognition part of our 'office culture'," Tiger stated, making air quotes. "The monthly cake budget dwarfs the amount set aside for athletic outings, sales parties, and building maintenance put together. On a given day, up to a dozen cards circulate in manila envelopes, waiting for signatures, and it's all tracked according to a spreadsheet devised and managed by..."

"The Marketing Director," Kipper said, getting it. His eyes settled on something at the bottom of the shelf - a squarish wooden panel about the size of his forepaws, with plexiglas on one side, wrapped with cellophane and joined to a cardboard box. "Wait, what's this?" he said.

"It says 'Ant Farm Starter Kit'," said Pig, picking it up.

Tiger took it from Pig's grip and started reading the instructions. "Contains ant eggs, soil, food. Everything you need to start your own ant farm. Great as a paperweight. It's perfect!"

"Are you sure?" Kipper asked, looking as dubious as his beady little dots for eyes would allow. "I don't thing living things are welcome in the office."

"The finance director keeps a fish tank," Jake pointed out. "She's got two goldfish in it."

"That's right. I've fed them," added Pig.

"So it's settled then," said Tiger, as authoritatively as his thin, wispy voice could muster. "I think the Director will enjoy it."

"He does have all those cards to hold down," Kipper allowed. They headed for the checkout, where Tiger gleefully held up his dollar and paid for the gift. Taxes notwithstanding, the four were on their way.


	4. A Meeting Gone Wrong

It was one of those movie-set mornings. Cloudless, windless, temperatures just about perfect for sitting in the yard sipping iced tea, which is exactly what Kipper was doing when he heard Tiger's grainy lilt calling from the front door. He had barely leaned forward and raised his sunglasses when Tiger came bounding around the house.

"We've been called to a meeting," Tiger said. He was waving a scrap of paper, this one was white and bore no evidence that it was accepted as legal tender. "This afternoon, at the office."

Kipper stood and took the letter from Tiger. "Have I got a letter, too?" he asked.

"Oh, this one is yours," Tiger said. "I thought I'd save you the trouble of retrieving it and prying it open..."

"Thank you, I suppose," Kipper said, dutifully ignoring this breach of privacy and pivoting to read the letter. "It says it's at noon today. Is it one of those lunch and learns?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know that, Kipper, it's your letter."

Kipper narrowed his eyes, pretending to read further. "It says there will be beverages but no lunch is provided..."

"What? No, it said there will be sandwiches, soup and salad," Tiger said, grabbing the paper from Kipper's paws. "See? Right there. Under where it says 'Mandatory'."

"So it does, yes... What do you, um, suppose it's all about then?"

"That it doesn't say. I mean, let's see... no, it doesn't say."

"You don't say."

When they arrived in the office, the line at the buffet table extended halfway down the corridor. The table was piled high with sandwiches, bowls of salad, cartons of soup and all the necessities and fixings. Pig and Jake stood at the head of the line, their arms already laden with grilled veggie wraps and soup.

"I don't know if I can stick to this diet," said Jake, sounding dismayed.

"You shouldn't think of it as a diet, Jake," Pig said. "It's more of a lifestyle change."

"Then I don't know if I can stick to this lifestyle, I suppose."

Pig, Jake and several of the workers found seats around the conference table. A few others rolled or dragged chairs fom elsewhere in the building. One employee rolled his chair all the way from his desk while sitting the entire time. Kipper and Tiger wound up standing, much too close to the front of the room.

Tom, the Marketing Director, was standing at the head of the table, with his coffee cup in hand. There was also a large gift bag and a cake. Paper plates and whatnot were arranged on the credenza behind him. Bald and fairly short, Tom was the kind of man who seemed pathetically non-threatening and murderously creepy at the same time, a look cultivated by his bland personality and a total lack of interpersonal skills. Kipper was forever torn between feeling bad for the guy and being ashamed to know him.

"Hello," Tom began in a voice thin as a willow branch. He had a habit of chuckling at his own jokes, but worse than that, was the staring, or maybe leering, at a selected person a beat too long while he spoke. "As you know, it's my birthday, which I am lucky enough to share with nobody else here."

Everybody knew Tom pulled a lot of weight at the network, and nobody ever got hired if they shared his birthday. While he spoke, those in the room who had been eating found themselves paused, holding their sandwich wraps and spoonfuls of soup, like animatronic furries waiting for a visitor to activate their sensor.

"Tomorrow it's Sarah's, and Mike's," Tom said, singling each of them out for a moment while they cringed. "Next Wednesday four people in the building have a birthday. But today is, heh, all mine."

At this point everybody took a quick bite, or slurp, before Tom continued.

"I took the liberty of opening my gifts, to save time. I wanted to thank everyone for the card, too. That was a well-kept secret. You guys had me worried. Heh heh."

Tom pulled a few things out of the bag on the table. Lifting a racquet of some type Kipper couldn't identify, he said "This is nice, thank you, Trisha, this might turn my badminton into goodminton. Heh."

"And this, a new travel mug is always useful, thank you, Kellie. This is the sort that plugs in, keeps your tea warm. Can't heat it, but probably wise."

At this point Tom stopped and stared into the bag, letting everyone have another chew. His face grimaced as he pulled out Tiger's ant farm. Tiger beamed as he realized Tom had opened it, and set the food and egg sacs in the soil.

"Now this is from Tiger. Thank you, Tiger, but I think I need a little help with it. The little eggs won't hatch."

Tiger, during the last few days, had given a great deal of thought to this possibility, and how embarrassing it would be to have his dollar-store gift turn out to be a miserable failure. For this reason, he'd come prepared.

"I read that you can coax the eggs along with a little coffee," Tiger said. "Warm, not hot. Just a drop or two."

"Coffee, really?" Tom said, eyeing his cup, then looking dubiously at Tiger.

"Yes, I'll show you!" At this, Tiger took the cup and began to pour just a sip's worth into the farm. Tom reached out to grab his coffee, and Tiger's arm lifted suddenly, spilling the entire cup across the table. Seconds became minutes as they both watched the puddle expand toward the bag and the cake.

Kipper noticed the ant farm, now saturated with liquid, starting to bubble. First it grew a shell of rime, as the sugar Tom had added to the coffee reacted with something. This something began to fizz as it puffed into clusters of tiny white pellets, coating the wooden case. The fizzing turned into a crackling sound as the same reaction occurred inside the case.

The pellets started to pop open with a noise that, at the scale of the conference room, was a mild sizzling about the level of a fan in a computer, or the buzz of a cell phone. But as every ear in the room was now tuned to the scale and detail of the ant farm's four-inch universe, the splitting of the tiny eggs tore through the room like a crashing jet plane, the grains of soil tumbling like boulders caught in an avalanche.

Suddenly the surface of the table was churning with something spilling from the white goop. Something moving not quite mechanically, but not quite predictably. Something alive.


	5. Clean-Up Time

Chaos ensued.

Well, of course it did. Any time a dynamic catalyst is introduced into a static environment, a reaction of some sort will occur. This reaction represents a change of state that can proceed calmly and effectively due to mitigating factors and preparatory measures, or it produces a result that is somewhat less predictable.

In the worst cases, the new state will incinerate whatever tenuous peace existed, rapidly evolving into a critical explosion of activity. It may involve people jumping, screaming, spilling drinks and tossing chairs as they lurch into each other. It may involve somebody puking in the corner of the room. It may involve standing there incomprehensibly frozen, face red, watching a coating of voracious insects expand across a planar surface, soaking and devouring every morsel of your sanity.

Thus Tom the Marketing Director on his birthday. A very special day now devolved into a steaming lump of failure.

If his mind wasn't completely addled into shock, Tom might have noted that Tiger had honorably stood by him while the situation unfolded. Kipper, for his part, was studiously gathering rolls of paper towels from the cabinet and using wads of them as oil booms, trying to contain the spill.

"Tiger, help," Kipper said, the first to break the silence. One of the more adventurous office workers had returned and was helping to mop up ants and coffee. Another took a roll and began to master the puddle of vomit.

Tiger moved to take a bundle of paper towels from Kipper. "Hold on," a voice said. It was Susanne, a VP of something or other, poking her head into the room. "Oh my God, what's going on here, Tom?"

"We were celebrating, and..." Tom began. Whether due to admiration or fear, that he had endeavored to suppress in the presence of Susanne, the explanation would not come to him.

"Who brought these ants into the building?" she demanded.

Tom looked at Tiger. Kipper had just enough presence of mind to stand motionless, knowing even a flicker of his eyes might betray his friend.

A bevy of office personnel were crowded in the corridor behind Susanne, all waiting for some sort of answer.

"You both know this is a violation," Susanne said, stepping into the room. "We strictly prohibit the introduction of arthropods, annelids and arachnids into the office environment, due to the threat of bacteria, viruses, and other forms of pestilence inclusing typhus, tetanus, diptheria, anthrax, lyme, and ebola. This is all covered on page forty-seven, paragraph D of your personnel handbooks, which you all signed and initialed in triplicate."

"But," Tom began to stammer, "It was just a birthday gift-"

"This," Susanne screeched, "is not a 'gift'." She gestured at the surface of the table, still teeming with ants greedily slurping coffee and marching about in sinuous lines and ellipsoid formations, as if intent on outlining a work of impressionist art. "What you have here, is a vector! This place will need an exterminator. I should fire all three of you." Several people in the hallway, of which the less-squeamish were now bleeding into the room, gasped aloud.

"No, no," Tiger began. He raised his paw like an effusive third-grader in the back of the classroom. "It was me. I brought it. These two had nothing at all to do with it."

"Fine," Susanne said. "You're fired."

At this, Tom, who was already trying to hide within himself, seemed to deflate even more from relief. Kipper remained stoic.

"And, you, too," Susanne said, facing Tom directly. "These celebrations have gotten out of hand, clearly. As soon as you finish cleaning up in here, you can start with your desk."

"But-"

"I want you both out by the end of the day."

Kipper, who up until now had remained a statue, bent back to wiping up ants, sidling toward the conference room door ever so gently.

Susanne finally regarded him. "Kipper, I know you're involved in this somehow. When you're done helping them clean," she said, eyeing him pointedly. "You get the task of explaining this to the rest of your cast."

"Of, course," Kipper answered. It was one of the few times he didn't make the words sound like an ebullient bellow.

When Susanne had left and they were finally done, Kipper wordlessly left the room. He met Pig and Jake back at their desks.

"We heard about what happened, Kipper," Pig said.

"I guess things will be different now," Jake added.

Kipper looked at them forlornly. "It does seem that way, yes."


	6. Memories

Doris was washing dishes.

But that wasn't all. Doris did many other things while washing dishes. Sometimes she hummed a little tune. Sometimes she thought about her to-do list for the day, or stories to tell Caillou and Rosie. Sometimes, while joylessly scrubbing a particularly obstinate glop of melted cheese from a plastic plate, Doris looked out the window and wondered where she'd be right now... if not for that magazine cover.

It seemed like another lifetime, when Doris had achieved national fame as a soccer goalie on full scholarship, and parlayed this into a burgeoning viral video career as an extreme sports athlete. There was the rollerball team, the mountain biking through backcountry reachable only by parachute, the record-breaking cliff-dives, the Red Bull sponsorship, the magazine cover. Then...

How strikingly a community turned on her. How quickly old friends ebbed away. Her relationship with her parents had never quite recovered.

One of the charms around her neck was a trinket, a tag from the one friend who had never given up on her. Her husky, Artemis. Loyal, proud Artie. Her boy. Her only partner on so many adventures. She brushed a soapy thumb against the tag and closed her eyes, just for a second. No. No crying today.

They were all far away now. That was in the past, before the dishes, before Rosie, before Caillou, before she'd met Boris.

Boris. The level-headed, always reliable Boris. He was her rock. Truly. Stoic and unruffled, he bore the personality and passion of a grey stone on a riverbank, too large to dislodge but too small and unassuming to impede one's travels.

Except for Doris. Her travels had been abruptly truncated the moment she met this wilting willow of a man. Her boy, Caillou, was going to turn out just like him, unless she could muster the will to subvert his path. He was so curious, so impressionable, and weak, like a featherless baby chick destined to be starved out by more robust brothers. Caillou had no brothers, and only his aimless, detached father to guide him.

It wasn't too late.

"Dear?"

Doris blinked at hearing her husband's voice. The water had been glancing against the plate and spraying the counter while he watched. For how long?

"Doris, is something wrong?"

"No. No," Doris replied. She wiped her cheek with a waterlogged hand. "Just got soap in my eye."

"Oh, maybe I should get some new sponges for you," he said. Always thoughtful Boris. "Where is Rosie?"

"She's napping. I was thinking I might plant some vegetables while I have a few minutes free."

"Why not wait until she's up, and she can help?" Boris asked, quite innocently. "Wouldn't that be useful, to teach her about gardening?"

Doris paused to suppress a completely-warranted facial expression. "Oh, well, perhaps."

"I can wake her for you."

"No, that's fine. I'll get her when I'm done here, honey," she said, gesturing at the dishes. Boris was doing a perfect job of appearing completely earnest. Something had to change.

"Okay then, I'll be in the garage. Some boxes need to be-"

"Boris," she said, giving him a mild shudder. She had only called him by name a handful of times, including two notable occasions. He turned his head slowly, girding himself for some sort of monumental shift in this relationship. Doris was rubbing one of the charms on her necklace.

"I think we should get a dog," she said.

A dog? Well, he thought, but what about Gilbert? Didn't people have cats and dogs all the time? At least this wasn't... maybe it could work out. Okay, Boris realized, this was a fine idea.

"I think we have to ask the network about that, honey," he finally said. "Do you want me to talk to Susanne?"

Susanne, VP of Programming. Abrasive and uncivil on her best days. There was something Doris liked about her. Boris would be tossed about by Susanne like a rowboat in storm-driven waves. It gave her a cheer just to imagine it.

Doris gave him a wry smile. "Yes, that is probably best. Please do."


	7. Fields Lie Fallow

Kipper was folding laundry, humming to himself. For hours he'd been tackling various household chores, and the house had never been so uncluttered. The floor in the kitchen reflected everything up to knee height, and he'd filled two garbage bags with nothing but dust from his pole-mounted dust mop.

Normally these tasks would take several days, but he'd completed them all in an afternoon. There were no interruptions. He hadn't heard from Mouse or Pig or Jake in at least a week, nor did the Bleepers drop by. It had been surprisingly quiet since, well...

Kipper poured a glass of milk and picked up a book. After a few hours reading by a sunlit window, he looked out at the trees and sighed, "Nothing ever happens."

After a few moments watching birds chasing each other across the lawn, which he had been able to mow for the first time in forever, he was startled by a noise.

"What never happens, Kipper?" It was Mouse.

Kipper was overjoyed to hear someone else's voice. How long had it been?

"Oh, I said 'Nothing... ever happens' I suppose, Mouse," Kipper replied.

"Well, that's something, isn't it?" she asked.

Kipper pondered this. "No," he finally said. "Nothing is nothing."

"You seem glum, Kipper," Mouse said. "Are you glum?"

Kipper shook his head. "Glum? No, I don't think so. Look at all I've been able to do," he said, with a sweep of his paw at the clean room and shining floor.

This was the first time Kipper thought about how he felt. Cleaning and tidying up had occupied much of his free time lately, which is to say, nearly all of it. Suddenly it occurred to him that this excursion with Mouse would constitute an episode. A phenomenally boring one.

"Say, Mouse, shall we do something? Perhaps a game?" he said, shifting to a more jovial attitude.

"You mean like a board game?" Mouse exclaimed. "Or something like cricket. You know I'm not really skilled at that."

"I suppose a board game will do," Kipper said. He went to the cabinet where he kept that sort of thing. It was, of course, neater than usual. He pulled down a box labeled 'Parcheesi'.

Mouse watched quietly as Kipper opened the box and began to lay out the pieces. Her mind wasn't on Parcheesi, or any other board game. She knew there was no sense avoiding it any longer.

"Do you miss him, Kipper?"

Kipper paused for only an instant, then continued setting up the game. "I don't think we're allowed to-"

"Oh, fiddle that, Kipper. We're allowed to lament the loss of a friend, aren't we?"

"But it's not a loss," Kipper said, looking up at her. "We were just co-workers, and he's still out there. It's our lot to move on. Here, roll the dice. They'll see this, you know."

"I'm the mouse in the cupboard, Kipper," she said. Kipper cocked his head, and she clarified. "The fly on the wall. I know what it is to see. And what I see here, before all this, is friendship."

"No-"

"It is. You were. Are. Friends. You miss him, as do we all."

"Mouse, we can't-"

"Can't what, Kipper? Can't talk? Can't feel?" Mouse turned toward the window and went on. "All your show is, is talking. Doing random things. What do the kiddies see? They see friends, sharing, enjoying being in each other's company. Do you think that means nothing to them? Are feelings improper?"

Kipper was a bit flustered. "They learn that things change. That's the lesson. Nothing is-"

"Forever. Yes, but they are also allowed to change, as are we."

"But we're not, Mouse," Kipper said. "We must forge ahead."

"And never speak of it again? Never wonder? Never worry? Never miss someone so dearly you feel as if a piece of you is gone? That emptiness can never be indulged? Wrongs can never be righted?" Mouse paused, turning back to fix her gaze on him. "We should show that friendships are valuable over all else. And we must never let these fields lie fallow."

Kipper sighed, sitting back. "Then what do we do?" he asked.

"We let ourselves miss a lost friend. We consider how it has changed us. And we ponder what we will do about it... Pass the dice, Kipper."

Kipper handed over the dice. "Your roll, Mouse."


	8. Stipulations

Susanne's desk was kept furiously pristine. She had no pointless trinkets to clutter the space where she might need to sweep her mouse, while navigating the breadth of the two LCD monitors. Her notebook PC sat in a gap under the desktop, which could raise to a standing height. There were no wires visible, except behind the monitors, and there was no clutter on the screens either. All the apps and files were found in a series of menus, including bookmarks, tagged and arranged in groups that revealed how Susanne used them.

The desk was in its lower configuration now, as Susanne sat to think about the meeting she had just had with Boris, the hapless, infuriatingly calm dad to Caillou. She knew how popular the kid was with the sippy-cup set, though letters from parents tended toward frustration with the seeming lobotomization of his mom and dad.

Many of these missives called for a little less understanding and a bit more punishment of the corporal variety. Susanne had to admit the idea had merit.

There was definitely a flaw in the way the family was presented. Was it lack of action? No tension? Not enough conflict? Nobody seemed relatable, except maybe the whiniest little whippets destined for a lifetime of disappointment.

Something had to be done. She'd made an adjustment to Boris' backstory, and he seemed amenable to it. It was, perhaps, unnecessarily violent, but it explained some things. It also set the table for dramatic character development to come later. Susanne knew that the revelations these characters might make to the audience, and to each other, could plant the seeds for the live-action motion picture someday.

But she needed a catalyst. A trigger for these revelations to unfold. That's what the next meeting was about. She took the one thing sitting awkwardly on the desktop, her bluetooth headset, and put it on. She pressed one of its buttons. "Send him in," Susanne requested blandly. Within seconds, the door opened.

Tiger walked slowly across the threshold. He dared not look at Susanne, but instead gawked around the room, like a tourist from the countryside seeing Wembley Stadium for the first time. If he'd worn a hat, it would be in his hand. Pathetic.

Susanne threw the headset down, sprung to her feet and came around the desk. "Good to see you again, Tiger. You look well," she lied. Tiger looked like re-animated roadkill. "How long has it been? Two weeks? Three?"

"Hello, Susanne," Tiger answered, his voice hoarse and hollow. He took a seat without bothering to ask. "About that long, I suppose."

Susanne leaned against the desk, tilted her head and looked at him curiously. His fur was unkempt and wiry, even more than a Scottish terrier's coat should be. She thought she would affect an earnestly-friendly-but-condescending manner to push him into an agreement, but it was clear she didn't need to. Tiger was ready to launch headlong into any notion she might suggest.

His forlorn mien almost caused Susanne to feel sympathetic. Almost. She shook her head mildly and shrugged off the emotion before it could surface.

"Have you heard from your pals?" she asked, reverting to her normal role as the clever interrogator. This question was a trap.

"I should say not," Tiger said accusingly. "You know the rules on that."

"Hmmm," Susanne agreed. So he wasn't just a dumb old dog. "Yes, I certainly do. In the handbook, it makes clear that any contact between you and the cast would constitute an episodic event, for which you may be held liable for reimbursing the network for all stipends, fees, wages and other contractual obligations with staff and vendors. And where it says 'may' it really means 'Shall'."

Tiger knew the last part wasn't written, but the interpretation was entirely consistent. "Which is why I haven't spoken to Kipper or anyone else since the, um, firing," he added.

"Well, good, let's get right to it, then," Susanne said, leveling her gaze. "We may have another role for you. Not with Kipper, but on a more, let's say, family-oriented program... and this time when I say 'may', that's what I mean."

"What show?" Tiger asked.

"I said, 'may'. And there may also be some other minor stipulations."

"What stipulations?

"'May'," she said again, raising an eyebrow.

Tiger felt himself deflate into the chair like a dusty antique cushion that had long ago lost its loft. He sighed and said, "I agree, then. It doesn't seem I have much of a choice."

"Well, I'm glad we could reach an agreement, certainly," Susanne said with a purposely artificial cheeriness. She returned to her chair and pulled the headset back on. "This is a new beginning for you, Tiger. I can tell. I will have the details sent to you shortly."

Tiger continued sitting, his jaw agape as if he was about to speak, but couldn't find the right words.

Susanne looked up, startled that he was still there. "You may go," she said, with a dismissive flick of her right hand. "And by, 'may' I mean-"

"Understood," Tiger said, hopping up with a tad more bounce in his step than he wanted to reveal. Without another word from either of them, he left.


	9. Popcorn

There was a knock at the door. It was more a warning than a courtesy, since the door opened immediately, allowing Jake to poke his head into the room.

"Kipper, are you home?" he bellowed. "You have to see something." He was clutching Kipper's television remote by the time Kipper walked in from the kitchen, where he had been adjusting curios on the windowsill.

"What is it? Why the fuss?" he asked.

Jake had the television on, and was pressing the remote's buttons furiously to bring the channel up to triple-digits. Kipper had apparently been watching something in the tens.

"Look at this, Kipper," he said, pointing at the screen. Kipper recognized the bright yellow, blue, and green world of Caillou, the bald four-year old, and the lamest cast of imbeciles he'd ever met.

"Why on Earth would you want to watch this?" Kipper complained.

"Because, look," Jake said, gesturing at the television with both paws.

"What could possibly-" Kipper said as he glanced at the show. "Oh."

There on the screen, being introduced to the family by the father, was Tiger.

Kipper shook his head. "There's no way," he said. "That's not-"

"I'm afraid it's him, Kipper. Listen," Jake said, raising the volume.

"How wonderful, Honey," the mother was saying. "Is he a Yorkie?"

"Yorkie? I like that," Caillou squealed. "Can I name him Yorkie, Mommy?"

Kipper and Jake were aghast. There on the television, Tiger stood on all fours, barely moving. The boldly-scrawled Calliou tableau could never capture such detail, but they knew that Tiger was trembling almost imperceptibly, with some fear and uncertainty, but mostly rage.

"Oh, no, Jake," Kipper said, shaking his head slowly. "This cannot stand."

Jake stared at the screen, knowing Kipper was right. Something had to be done. But what?

They stood watching the scene, and were started by Pig, who had walked through Kipper's open door. "Have you seen? Have you seen the telly?" Pig hollered more angrily than anything else they'd ever heard him say.

"Yes, we're watching it now," Kipper said, without looking up. "It's... it's-"

"Infuriating," said Jake.

"What will we do about it?" Pig asked.

The three stared at the screen while an apocalypse of emotions roiled in their chests, battling to emerge from their throats as a yell, a howl of pain, or a plaintive gasp. Nothing came, until Kipper let out a strangely cheerful proclamation. "I know! I'm going to make some popcorn."

"What?" said Pig.

"How can you think of popcorn now, Kipper?" Jake demanded.

Kipper held out his paws in a calming gesture. "You understand we're in an episode. We have been since Jake walked in. We can't talk about, you know, unless..."

"Oh, I see," Jake said, nodding. "If we've come over to watch the telly, and he just happens to be on..."

"Right," said Kipper. "So naturally, we'll need popcorn."

"I suppose we'll need some soft drinks, too, Kipper," Pig said, realizing the ruse. "I'll help with that"

"Tiger would be-"

"Shhh! Jake," Kipper said.

Jake nodded. "Right. I'm just saying he'd be furious if he knew we were eating popcorn while he-"

"Found himself being emasculated on TV by Caillou. Yes, I should think so," Kipper said.

"I think he's plenty furious already," Pig said, pointing at the screen.

They all looked at once. Tiger was definitely furious.


	10. Snap

Tiger's world had turned completely upside-down, in just a few weeks. This was much worse than dowsing the table in that conference room with scurrying ants, and even worse than getting fired from the only job he'd ever had. Now, here he was, on Caillou's lawn, where he couldn't stand up, couldn't talk, and might have to accept a new name.

He was long past beginning to think that the dollar he'd found was somehow cursed. 'Stipulations', Susanne had said. Tiger realized he should have jumped at her throat the instant she suggested this. He cocked his head, wondering how a thought like that ever entered his mind.

"He's cute, Mommy. Look!" Caillou said, pointing at the dog. Rosie, sitting nearby, laughed. Tiger was ready to scream.

Doris stood with a long-handled shovel, which she had been using in the garden by the front steps. "Oh, dear, you should get the camera," she said to dad. Boris, his name was. Tiger didn't like him much, since meeting him up close for the first time when he came to 'adopt' Tiger at the 'shelter' - which meant picking him up at network headquarters, and putting him in a godforsaken pet crate.

Caillou came closer. Tiger worried that his internal compass was so far out of whack that he was rapidly losing the ability to remain civilized. Was it just being on all fours? Was it not talking? There was no way he was going to bark. Absolutely no way in-

"Speak, Yorkie! Speak!" exclaimed Caillou.

Tiger looked at the kid. That whining voice pierced right through his eardrums as sure as a lance. But there was something else. An even higher pitch that reminded Tiger of a teapot boiling over. Did someone have a kettle on?

"Daddy, he's not doing anything," Caillou whined.

"He might be a Scottish Terrier, not a Yorkshire," Dad said calmly.

"Maybe he'd like a treat," said another voice. It was Grandmother, stepping out onto the porch. She was holding a bag of something. What were they? Dog biscuits?

Tiger felt himself begin to gag. He also felt something else. Was his mouth watering? Grandmother wagged the purple dog biscuit in her hand. "C'mon, Can you beg?"

Caillou joined in, as his mother and grandmother laughed. "Beg, Yorkie, beg!" Rosie fell over into a full-throated toddler's belly laugh. And there was that kettle again. Where was it? Tiger felt water dripping from his tightly-closed maw. No, it couldn't be. He was drooling!

Suddenly, he let out a sound of his own, a deep growl. It seemed to rise from his belly, and resonated his throat like the bell of a trombone. When it emerged, it shook the air, and even the ground seemed to shudder.

Everyone stopped. Even the birds stopped chirping. Tiger moved toward Caillou, one paw at a time. That high pitched whine didn't stop. It was only growing louder. More persistent.

Rosie let out a wail of terror. Caillou stood frozen, his eyes welling up.

"Honey!" Mother yelled.

Tiger growled again. He had no idea where it came from. The din in his ears felt like a clamp, slowly tightening, crushing his skull. All at once, he saw the mother drop the shovel and sweep Rosie into her arms, as Grandmother bounded down the porch steps as quickly as any grandmother could.

Then Caillou ran.

When people later describe a sudden change of initiative, typically in the aftermath of some traumatic event they were the cause of, the word they most often choose is 'snap'. But Tiger wouldn't have described it that way. The instant he saw Caillou back away, then pivot, throwing a little rooster tail of turf as he planted a sneaker and launched himself across the lawn, he imagined a boom, like a massive drum struck by a basketball. It wasn't a snap.

Tiger flew at the boy, skittering on all fours for the first time, and an exhilaration overwhelmed him. Just as Tiger was about to lunge for an ankle, Caillou turned toward the back yard. A stand of shrubs kept Tiger from cutting the corner, but the obstacle only thrilled the dog more as he leapt over a spreading yew.

Caillou cried out at the top of his lungs and careened across the flagstone patio in the back yard. Looking back, he bolted headlong into the glass table, knocking it over. Tiger noticed a glass of lemonade sailing in a perfect arc, before it shattered against a kaleidoscope of colorful slate and marble. The table crashed onto the patio, spraying glass all over the yard. Tiger shut his eyes tightly and jumped through the flying shards.

The boy rounded the third corner and jumped over the basement bulkhead, which resisted Tiger's claws, throwing him into the driveway. Caillou had increased his lead, and a spike of rage exploded within Tiger. In a burst of power, he skittered across the pavement, and the instant his paws achieved purchase on the grass, he dove at the kid's left leg.

His teeth sank into the soft white flesh of a calf. He clenched his jaw with the force of his entire body, as muscle and bone and sinew forged into one solid projectile designed to do exactly this. He could feel his teeth gouging something hard as stone, which cracked between his teeth. The boy fell.

Now he heard a snap.

Tiger was uncertain whether his eyes were open or closed. One color dominated his view and threaded his mind: Red. But the sounds were myriad. There was screaming from all points, yelling and doors slamming, and the high-pitched wail had returned. As he tore and clawed at the boy, wriggling across him to avoid his kicks, his jaw only released once, to clamp down tightly on Caillou's knee.

Through the din, he heard the mother screaming to Boris, something about a gun...

The television screen went blank. To Kipper, it startled him deeply enough that he shuddered, as if he'd received a mild electric shock. He was sure Pig and Jake felt the same. It didn't help that his nerves already felt shredded and raw by what he'd just seen.

They watched in silence, all three with jaws agape, until a beep announced that 'technical difficulties' were taking place at the network.

Kipper stood up, and took the popcorn bowls into the kitchen. Jake shook his head.

"What did we just see?" said Pig.

"That..." Jake stammered, "was... I don't..."

"It was cruel, is what it was," said Kipper, walking briskly through the room. He was headed for the door.

"Wait, where are you going?" Jake asked.

Kipper opened the door and paused for a second to look at the two of them. "Well? C'mon," he said. "We have to get him out of there."

Jake and Pig stood up, and followed Kipper out.


	11. Mute Witness

Gilbert sat lazily on the windowsill, watching the scene unfold in the front yard. Several times, it had occurred to him to get up and take a closer look. And several times he yawned and stayed out of it. He's a cat. That's what cats do.

He watched Caillou's dad open the crate to let out a smallish grey dog. He watched the family make fools of themselves trying to agitate the poor animal. He watched them leap in horror when the dog finally reached his breaking point and chased the kid around the house. He watched dad barge through the front door looking for safety, the coward.

The damage the little dog was doing to the boy now surprised Gilbert, and he wondered if he should respond with a stretch, a yawn, or maybe jump down from the windowsill and go elsewhere. In the end, he blinked. Slowly. Why waste energy?

A noise from the kitchen turned his head. Pans and dishes crashed to the floor and dad came rushing out with a long stick. Gilbert had never seen it before. Was it something he'd missed on a galavant through the cupboards?

The thing was somehow black and silver at the same time, and had a number of other things clamped to it. It looked heavy. Too late Gilbert realized the dad was coming for his window. His eyes widened, and he jumped out, an instant before the father bent to poke the stick through the opening.

So much for staying out of it. Gilbert was now sprawled on the porch, only a hop or two from where the grey dog was digging his bloody maw into the kid's leg. The dog stopped and looked up. Gilbert arched and hissed loudly, then leaped down the steps and ran for the back yard. The dog bounded over the boy and gave chase.

Gilbert reached the tree in back, but the dog was too close. He launched himself at a trellis, and from there he scrambled his way to the roof of the shed. Finally he could relax and look down at the crazed animal, jumping wildly, barking his pathetic little high-pitched yelp. Despite the havoc he'd wreaked for the kid and his parents, his bark was kind of funny.

Tiger finally settled his antics down to a smolder, and skulked about the base of the shed. Gilbert sat bemused on the roof, and for several minutes, they were at stalemate.

A window opened in the back of the house, and the shiny black stick appeared. Gilbert saw it point directly at the shed. At once, the shed's doorframe shattered and splintered, and there was an ear-splitting blast from the stick in the window. Tiger threw himself into a frenzy, circling and barking. The door to the shed creaked open, and he jumped through it.

"Stop!" someone yelled. It was Grandmother. She was coming around the side of the house. "I'm out here," she said. Gilbert watched her gingerly cross the glass-strewn patio and skirt the wrecked table with a disgusted shake of her head.

She was carrying a shovel.

Gilbert had the notion to retreat from the roof, but intuition - or maybe curiosity - told him it might be worthwhile to hang around. Grandmother approached the shed and pushed the door fully open with the shovel blade.

Gilbert couldn't see her now, but he did see something appear in the driveway. A couple of dogs and... was that a pig? They were walking toward the shed slowly, upright, on their hind legs.

The larger dog and the pig ducked behind some shrubs. Only one walked forward, his forepaws held up.

Surely, Gilbert knew, this warranted more than a yawn.


	12. Lies

It isn't right to lie to children, Doris knew. They might develop trust issues, which can be devastating to a child's natural curiosity if established at a very young age. Nevertheless, she felt it was important enough that Rosie wouldn't come toddling into the kitchen, that she imbued the babe with a very rich and everlasting sense that the monstrous grey animal that had gored her brother's leg was surely hiding in the cupboards. That's why Daddy was in there now, trying to find him.

Otherwise, the situation was somewhat in hand. Years of backcountry field medicine had served Doris well, so she'd treated and wrapped her son's leg using most of the gauze in the house. And she went through a whole bottle of iodine. The kid howled in pain when she did it, but Doris simply narrowed her eyes and dabbed it onto his wounds with more purpose.

He would need a hospital, and stitches, as soon as her fool of a husband killed the animal that did this with his... sharpshooting skill? When was the last time he had brought that to bear?

Doris left Caillou, with Rosie playing with dolls quietly by his side. She joined her husband by the sink, where he was drawing a bead on the shed out back.

"Is he out there?" she asked.

"Yes, dear, he ran in when I tried to shoot him a minute ago."

"I thought you were some kind of sharpshooter now," she said accusingly.

"Sure, but..." Boris started. "I'm trying not to hit my mother."

Doris smirked. His new backstory was clever, but it hadn't done much to make him more interesting. "Why not?" she muttered.

As Boris looked over his shoulder and fixed her with a glare, something outside caught her eye. A dog was walking upright. She shook her head. It couldn't be, but another look confirmed it. A brown and white dog - a beagle? - was walking toward the shed with his paws held up. Boris saw it, too.

"Shoot it!" Doris yelled.

"No, I-"

"Why the hell not?" she demanded. "Give me the gun!"

"Doris, no!" he pleaded as she wrested the gun from his hands and took it to another window. He stood up and held his palms out to her, as if he was scolding the kids to put away their toys. "What's gotten into you, Doris?" he asked, much too calmly. It infuriated her.

"Shut up," Doris said, and lined up the sight with the brown dog's head. She pulled the trigger.


	13. Talking

Tiger was shaking. Simultaneously, he felt confused, scared, and angry about being confused and scared. He was a dog, and he knew he had these instincts inside him, but it also infuriated him that he'd let them take over. As the adrenaline receded, he began to recognize a trace of shame.

Grandmother was flailing in the darkness with the shovel head. She had whacked the lawnmower and knocked over a fuel can that, thankfully, the father had closed tightly. She was also using language that frankly couldn't be aired. It was clear she wasn't about to come inside the shed.

At once, she stopped swinging the shovel, and Tiger heard a familiar voice. It sounded like... Kipper.

Tiger emerged from behind a stack of terra cotta planters. He could see Grandmother outside, holding the shovel at her waist. She was wielding it like a pike to ward off whomever was out there.

"Don't come any closer!" she screeched.

"I won't. I just need to see my friend," said a voice. It was unmistakably Kipper.

"What the hell are you?" Grandmother choked out the words like she had just swallowed a bug. "That creature is your friend? Then when I'm done braining him, it's your turn."

Tiger moved toward the open doorway. He could see Kipper now, and he saw something in the house behind him. A rifle projected through a window. It had stopped moving, and settled on a fixed point. Right at Kipper.

Tiger yelled as he jumped through the doorway. It was supposed to be a warning, but only a bark came forth. It was enough. Kipper threw himself to the ground as something zinged over his head and obliterated the stack of pots in the shed. There was a bang from the rifle, and then another. This shot pinged off Grandmother's shovel as she swung it madly at Tiger.

"Boris, for f-k's sake, stop!" she screamed.

Tiger and Kipper were on the ground, Kipper with his paws pulled tightly over his head. Tiger belly-crawled to him. He tried to say something, but could only voice a whimpering half-growl. It frustrated him to hear it.

"I know," Kipper said, somehow understanding him. "We've come to get you out of here. This isn't you."

"We?" Tiger asked. It came out as a grunt.

Grandmother had rallied. She lifted the shovel high above her, and began its terminal swing. Tiger rolled into her leg and threw her off balance, but he took the business end of the shovel across his hind leg, and something cracked loudly. A sharp, severe pain rolled through his body, causing him to emit a guttural cry. He found himself overwhelmed by nausea, and only half conscious.

Kipper ducked to avoid another swing. He knew if he stayed within an arm's length of Grandmother, she couldn't hit him with the shovel. He could also keep Boris and his rifle at bay.

Grandmother seemed to realize this, and she trained her next swing at the incapacitated Tiger. She kicked Kipper away and wound up.

"Hey, do you gents need some help?"

Grandmother stopped and looked up. Kipper blinked and swiveled his head. The voice wasn't Pig or Jake, whom he now realized had emerged from their hiding spots and were sidling toward the kitchen window. "Who said that?" he demanded.

"Look higher," said the voice. Grandmother pointed wordlessly at the roof of the shed.

It was Gilbert. He licked a paw and looked down balefully at them. Kipper felt a small surge of rage at how catlike the gesture seemed.

"Tsk," the cat began. "A fine mess you're in, eh?"


	14. All This Time

Doris sat on the floor and leaned her head back against the wall, while Boris looked anxiously through the window. Grandmother appeared unhurt, and was just now reeling the shovel around to raise it high above her. She teetered in a way that reminded him of the weighted inflatable clown he'd had as a kid.

He was just about to yell to her when she went into a frenzy of swinging. He saw her land a blow on one of Tiger's haunches, and winced at the dog's anguished howl.

"Why don't you go out and help her?" Doris said. "I'll cover you with this." She patted the rifle in her lap.

Boris looked at his wife for a long moment, wondering whether getting down-range of her, in this exasperated state, was a sound idea.

He gestured for the gun. "Maybe you'd better let me-"

"Let you what?" she said, with a face at once jaded and defiant. "Play the hero, as if your new backstory changes anything?"

"New backstory? What are you getting at?"

"We never had a damned gun in the house, before, Boris," she yelled. "Suddenly there it is, above the fridge, and somehow we both knew it."

"Yes, it was Susanne's idea, something about being a sniper with the RCMP."

A look fell across Doris' face that betrayed shocked bemusement and profound fear. She began to laugh as she imagined her husband lying on an urban rooftop scoping bad guys.

"Honey, I know it's silly, but we had to do something," Boris said. "You don't know... Susanne said we're in danger of being canceled. Viewers are bored."

"After today?" Doris laughed even more loudly. "Maybe they'll move us to prime time!"

"It's not just that," Boris said. "She said the parents are angry. They hate me. They hate you, and they really hate..." he reduced his voice to a whisper. "Caillou."

"He's a four-year-old boy!" she exclaimed, while Boris waved his hands and made 'shushing' sounds.

"Doris, the kids will hear-"

"Maybe it's time they heard," Doris said as she leaned the rifle against the wall and got to her feet. "They should hear something in this house that isn't 'Let me help you pick up your cars, Caillou', 'You should be more careful when spilling paint, Caillou'," She was mocking him now. "'Maybe playing with matches in the closet was a bad idea, Caillou!' Doesn't anything push you over the edge? I settled for this. I settled hard, if my old-"

"Settled?" Boris bellowed. "You settled? Do you know what I was doing before this role? Any idea? I was the lead guitarist in a tween show about surfing rock stars. Mavericks in the morning, 3Com Park at night. 40,000 screaming fans."

Doris stood, speechless, and a bit incredulous.

"I didn't look like a dumpy toddler drawing either. I was a CGI-anime mashup, traveling the world, meeting famous people," he went on. "I even knew about you. I was following your vid series. I even remember your magazine cover!"

"You knew about that?" Doris gasped.

"Yes," he said, as loudly as she'd ever heard him say anything. "I gave up everything for this! The show ran its course and they hired the lead singer to run programming. Yes... that's Susanne. She gave me this role because she knew I had the level head to handle the kid. He's the star, but, well..." he brought his voice down, "you know."

"All this time?" Doris said, looking away. "You knew... all this time." She had never even considered Boris' previous life. Most thoughts of the past were spent trying to forget her own. She never imagined he would have known about her.

"Doris, when I came here, and saw you, I knew I was the luckiest man alive. I did not settle."

Doris felt her eyes welling up as she rubbed the tag on her necklace. She was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of hope. There was hope. If the show could survive this fiasco. She chuckled quietly and wiped away a tear.

"What's wrong?" Boris asked her.

"Nothing," she said. "I just need some new sponges."

Boris laughed and wrapped his arms around her. "Doris, I-"

There was a scream from the yard. It sounded like Grandmother, but there was something else. A cat's yowling.

Doris looked out the window and grabbed the rifle. She was surprised how quickly it had become an instinct.

Boris joined her and gawked at the scene out by the shed. "Dear," he said calmly. "Give me the gun."


	15. Conflagration

Gilbert sat on the shed roof, in full command of the attention now being brought to bear from below. Grandmother gaped at him in pure disbelief, while the dog stood full of barely-concealed anger. He wasn't surprised the cat could talk; he was from a world where that sort of thing happened all the time. Still, his face betrayed a sense of curiosity.

As Kipper looked from Grandmother, her shovel hanging threateningly over his incapacitated friend, to Gilbert on the roof, he wondered where the cat's allegiance might lie.

"You know you can't take him," the cat said, in a tone dripping with condescension. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, which Kipper saw correctly as a signal that he was on his own. So this was how it was going to be.

"I can and I will," Kipper said, trying not to sound desperate. "He doesn't belong here."

The cat threw his head back and let out a mocking gasp. "He doesn't belong here! Ha. Clearly. Nevertheless, here he is. I don't know how it is on your show, but in this world there are consequences for one's actions."

Kipper noticed Grandmother beginning to stir from her shocked stupor. He backed away from her, making sure he was clear of the shovel's range. "Whatever consequences your show is about," Kipper began, "he's suffered enough. Anyone can see that."

"Yes," Gilbert said. "Countless children are watching even now, and what are they going to learn? That you can maul a four-year-old child... and go home?"

Kipper shuddered at the realization that the cat had the better of him. "Then what do you think should happen?"

"Try to take him and I'll show you," Grandmother said angrily. It was practically a growl. She wheeled the shovel around and pointed it at him.

Kipper, for the first time in his life, was overwhelmed by rage. With an agility that surprised even him, he rolled underneath the shovel and swept his legs against Grandmother's knees. The move failed to knock her down, but she let out a yell and hobbled, dropping the shovel blade to the ground.

Kipper felt a surge of something powerful within his bones. Was this what he'd seen happen to Tiger on the television? It was exhilarating. Time seemed to slow, giving him the mental acumen to see his next move, and imagine an array of outcomes. He could choose a course, and test his prediction against reality's immediate reflex.

He jumped on the shovel blade, just as Grandmother was setting her legs to raise it. She wound up stumbling and dragging the shovel with Kipper hanging on. She twisted her grip to pry the handle over her shoulder instead, and Kipper felt the shovel begin to lift. The old coot seemed to have an intuition for melee.

"Are you learning about consequence yet?" yelled the cat.

"Yes," Kipper barked, letting go of the shovel. It immediately swung upward over Grandmother's head. She stumbled forward. The shovel left her grip and sailed end over end across the yard, lodging itself between the pickets of a stockade fence.

As Grandmother grabbed the shovel to pull it down, muttering a sequence of curse words dating back to her days in grade school, Kipper ran to Tiger. He pulled the other dog's forearm over his shoulder and lifted him toward the shed.

Gilbert mocked him from above. "Today's lesson, then, is what? If we fight, we can get away with anything?"

"Why don't you come down here, and I'll teach you one," Kipper said, noticing that his normal sense of civility had taken a backseat to cruel wit. He didn't like what these impulses were doing to him, but there would be time for guilt later.

Gilbert nodded beyond Kipper. "I'd enjoy that, but you have bigger fish to fry."

Kipper turned to see Grandmother coming at him, shovel in hand, with her face screwed into an expression of pure hate.

Kipper tripped over a bag of fertilizer in front of the shed. Tiger fell and howled in pain, and Kipper gave him a quick "Sorry." Then he saw the can of lawnmower fuel lying just inside the open doorway. Kipper picked it up and swiveled around to block the blow from Grandmother's onrushing shovel.

The shovel blade pierced the can, spraying Kipper and Grandmother with gasoline. She backed away, and Kipper swung the can at her, throwing a stream of fuel across the shed and yard.

They were now engaged in a display of useless swinging as Gilbert looked on, increasingly concerned about the liquid coating everything, its acrid tang permeating the air. "I wonder what the lesson is now," he said, as he looked for a safe retreat from the roof.

Swinging the can became easier for Kipper as it drained its contents all over the garden. He was angling around Grandmother and she now stood directly in front of the shed.

"How about that you can't taunt an animal and get away with it?" Kipper hollered. "How about that you can't reduce someone to servitude and live in peace?"

"How about that you can't ever leave a friend behind?" said another voice. This was a small voice, barely a squeak. It came from the roof, just behind Gilbert.

Gilbert, being a cat, should normally be highly attuned to a startle like this, but he had one flaw. Being a cartoon cat, he had a unique backstory, one Susanne had given him a long time ago, in the event it might someday be used for comic effect: He was profoundly afraid of mice.

Gilbert took nary a second's glance behind him to see Mouse, standing defiantly at the peak of the roof, before his reflexes launched him into the air with a yowl. He leaped directly onto Grandmother's face.

Instantly, she screamed and backed away, dropping the shovel. The cat dug his claws in, hissing harshly, and blood began to stream down her forehead.

Kipper ducked past Grandmother's lurching feet and lifted Tiger. He threw his shoulder under the terrier's arm and they both hobbled toward the driveway. At this instant, the rifle barrel emerged from the window and opened up a volley of wild shots, splintering fenceposts and shattering plant pots across the yard. It didn't seem to be aimed at them.

Bullets glancing against broken pottery and slate flagstones had thrown sparks across the fuel-soaked grass, and small flames leapt up.

"Go, Kipper!" yelled mouse as she jumped from the roof of the shed into the neighboring yard.

Grandmother was screaming as Gilbert continued to clutch at her face and hair. She tried to grab him with flailing arms. There was another shot, and the cat was flung off into the shed, where he slammed against a pile of flagstones. Grandmother went to the dirt with a thud that shook the ground under Kipper's feet. She scuttled away from the shed and was able to pick herself up using the overturned patio table. Then she ran.

The rifle pivoted toward Kipper as Boris lined up the two dogs in his scope. He felt something grab the barrel. Below the window, Pig had climbed onto Jake's shoulders to wrench the gun from his hands. It fell to the driveway with a clatter, and a few irate words were heard inside the house.

As Kipper and Tiger reached the sidewalk, with Jake and Pig right behind, the flames reached the bag of fertilizer. There was a tremendous explosion and they felt the sudden heat of an immense conflagration rising from the yard. The shuddering air threw them to the ground, and the four of them sat up to see shards of wood from the obliterated shed and surrounding fence fluttering to the ground. The garden was fully engulfed in flames, evoking a sort of botanical apocalypse.

Mouse approached from the neighboring yard. "Is this what that cat meant by consequence, Kipper?" she asked.

Kipper couldn't help but chuckle. "Probably not," he said. "But also yes. This is certainly a consequence."

"The kids," Tiger said in a voice that was still half a growl. "Sure learned something new today."

"I think we all did, Tiger," Kipper allowed. He gave his friend a pat on the back. "I think we all did."


	16. Skating

The house was as clean as it had ever been, but it wasn't due to Kipper's doddering around dusting and sweeping. It was really from disuse. In the weeks since Tiger's discharge from the hospital, he and his pals had spent much of their time fussing over their recuperating friend at his place. Kipper had been home mainly to sleep.

Today would be different. Today, Tiger was going to visit, walking under his own power, with the help of a crutch, and Jake, Pig and Arnold along for moral support. Kipper had spent the morning preparing snacks and refreshments, because today was the highly anticipated return of the show known as Caillou.

While Kipper was laying out tea dishes in the sitting room where there came a knock at the door. He opened it to see his friends, with Tiger standing patiently on the porch.

"Welcome, everyone!" Kipper exclaimed.

"May we come in, Kipper?" asked Jake.

"We were hoping we could watch the new episode of Caillou with you, Kipper," said Pig.

Kipper glanced behind him, to where several tea sets and napkins were already arrayed on the coffee table. "What a wonderful surprise!" he answered. "That sounds like something I'd truly enjoy."

"Kipper, we brought you something," said Tiger. Jake held up a bag of popcorn kernels.

"Well, come on in," Kipper said. "I'll pop these up. The show starts in under half an hour."

"Did I hear someone say popcorn?" said a small voice from the kitchen. It was Mouse, scampering in to join them. After a few minutes chatting and getting settled, everyone took a seat while Kipper turned on the TV.

Caillou's opening track was essentially the same, with perhaps a little more pep and... was that an electric guitar? The opening scene focused on a spot in the front garden, where Mom had just finished digging a hole with a familiar-looking shovel.

Dad emerged from the front door, with Rosie and Caillou in tow. The boy was walking on his own, with one leg still heavily bandaged, and Kipper noted a slight limp. The children were carrying flowers. Dad was carrying a brightly-painted shoebox.

"Well, kids, I think we should give our friend a proper sendoff, don't you think?" he said. "Are you ready, honey?"

"I think it's time, dear," Mom said. "Here, I'll take him." She took the box from Dad and placed it in the hole.

"Well, kids, do you want to say a few words?" Dad asked.

Caillou and Rosie walked up to the hole and tossed the flowers in. Rosie sniffled loudly. "We'll miss you, Gilbert," Caillou said, holding back his own tears.

"We all will," said Mom, kneeling down to hug the two.

Dad took the shovel. "Would you like to finally see the new backyard?" he asked.

"Yes!" they cried, and quickly abandoned their forlorn funk. Mom took the kids through the house, shortly followed by dad. The back door opened up to reveal a skate park, with several of Caillou's friends already riding back and forth on brightly-colored decks, and some wearing in-line skates.

Where the shed once was, stood a cabana. Grandmother sat there on a stool by a newly-built bar made of mortarless flagstone, while Grandpa was braising ribs on a grill. Grandmother looked up from her magazine, one eye covered by a patch, and held up a tall drink with an umbrella.

"What do you think, dear?" Mom asked.

"Wow!" cheered Caillou. He ran awkwardly down the stairs. "This is amazing, Mom!" Two of the kids stopped their jibbing and joined him.

"I want you to meet Ryna and Conley," said Dad. "They'll show you some of their fave tricks, Caillou."

"Hey," said Ryna. She was wearing skates and snapping bubblegum. "You like basketball?"

Conley kicked his board upright and eyed Caillou. "Whaddaya think, kid? Wanna get some skills?"

Caillou could barely contain his excitement. "Can I try, Dad? Mom?"

Mom was sitting on the steps, lacing up her own skates. "If you think you're ready, Caillou," she said.

"Go ahead, Caillou!" Dad called out, tossing a board to the ground. He brought over a helmet and helped him put it on.

Caillou picked up the skateboard and took it to the top of one of the ramps. As the other kids stopped and watched, he put the board down and set one foot on it. He took another look around the yard at all the faces, patiently waiting. Mom gave him a nod.

He put his other foot on the deck and rolled over the lip. He dropped in. Instantly, the board flew down the ramp and Caillou flew off the back and slid down the slab. The board rolled across the concrete to a stop in front of the other kids.

Caillou rolled over and looked up. Dad saw the boy's lower lip start to buckle, as if he was waiting for a reaction. Looking for a consequence. Mom looked at Dad and very slowly shook her head. She held out her hand, palm down.

"Gotta walk it off," said Conley.

Ryna came over with his board. "Wanna try again?" she said.

"Okay," said Caillou, sitting up. "Gotta try again."

"Let me show you some stuff, Caillou," said Mom. She was all laced up and ready to put on a skating clinic.

"No, let me," said Dad, pulling on an electric guitar. He turned up a volume knob and screeched forth a raucous solo. Behind him, a curtain opened to reveal a band, with Susanne holding a microphone, and behind the drum kit was Tom, the network's former Marketing Director.

Amid a frenzy of skaters throwing tricks, the band launched into a triumphant rock anthem while Caillou and Rosie looked on, laughing excitedly and clapping along. The camera view rose to reveal neighbors streaming toward the house, bringing snacks and gifts.

"Ugh," Kipper said, turning off the set. "Would anybody rather play Parcheesi?"

The others were silent for a moment. "I think I speak for everyone, Kipper," said Mouse, "when I say absolutely, yes."


End file.
